


Groupie Kind of Love

by thelotusflower



Category: South Park
Genre: AU, M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:49:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27203404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelotusflower/pseuds/thelotusflower
Summary: CREEK WEEK: DAY ONE — PUNKCraig is a groupie for the punk rock band, Crimson Dawn. At one of their shows, he runs into a cute musician named Tweek Tweak.
Relationships: Craig Tucker/Tweek Tweak
Comments: 10
Kudos: 48
Collections: sp creek server does creek week 2020





	Groupie Kind of Love

**Author's Note:**

> hello all! happy creek week. Uh this is punk, I guess... punk themes are involved. I’m bad at following direction lmao. Also the the title for this is dumb but it popped into my head and yeah bro sorry. anywho, enjoy ! Also this in very very loosely based off When Harry Met Sally like if you can squint maybe you’ll see that

He never meant to become a roadie; never thought at twenty-three years old,  _ this _ is what he would be doing with his life. He has a  _ degree —  _ in Computer Science and Engineering. He could be  _ doing  _ something, making  _ real  _ money, and yet, here he is — in a dive bar in the middle of Colorado Springs, setting up the stage for  _ Crimson Dawn _ ; unemployed and working for his roommates.

It all started when roommates formed a band. They invited him to their first show. He helped them set up. They invited him to the next show, and this just continued until he was expected to be there. They even started  _ paying  _ him to be there — calling him an honorary band member even if he is missing from the stage. 

Now, here he is, four years later, making sure all their equipment gets to the stage safely while the rest of the band  _ “prepares.” _

He is above this. He just needs to find a job.

Sophomore year of college, he helped develop a gaming software that helped create communication between players. He made a decent amount of money from it; enough to pay off his student loans and then some. He has basically been living off that sum of money since then, along with the small amount of revenue he receives from being a groupie, but that is not much at all. He is close to running out of the money he made off his software, but whenever he sits in front of his laptop he cannot bring it in him to apply, always ending up on steam instead. He can probably can get by for another two years without finding a  _ real  _ job but then all his savings will be gone, and that seems  _ very  _ stupid idea. But there is always that slight chance that  _ Crismon Dawn _ will blow up — like a  _ very  _ small chance but  _ chance _ , nonetheless.

_ Crimson Dawn  _ is the third to last act — nothing special. He just wants head back to the motel after and crash, but the band is always adamant on staying through the night. Butters gets plastered every damn time — finding some lady to go home with, catching an Uber back to the motel the next morning. Jimmy, more or less, does the same thing, with less alcohol in his system, somehow succeeding in picking up women with lame pick up lines. Stan and Kenny often disappear right after their performance to fuck in the restroom; afterward, sliding up next to him and asking his opinion on their performance. They will hang around him for a little while until they get bored; oftentimes, Kenny dragging Stan out to dance. Craig often ends his night alone at the bar with his whiskey sour, waiting for the bartender to announce last call so he can get back to whatever cheap motel they are staying at for the night.

Today pretty much goes just the same.

They perform. Kenny and Stan disappear. Butters heads to the bar, and Jimmy heads to the girl he  _ swears  _ was giving him eyes all throughout the show. Craig drags all their equipment back to the van, with little help from the band members; all while knowing damn well he is way too overqualified for this shit.

It takes three trips to transfer all the equipment, and on the third transfer, he spots someone setting up on electric keyboard on stage. He glances at him as he begins to pick up the rest of the drum set. It is hard to make out the figure; the lighting dark and room still slighting in effect from the fog machine used during the show. Craig looks back down at what is is doing and as he picks up part of the drum set, he hears:

“You want help?”

Craig glances up at the voice; the once blurry figure on stage now a man in front of him. His dirty blonde hair is pulled back into a bun, his eyes glowing bright green amidst the darkness. Craig gulps. Usually, he would say no because he really does not like talking to most people, and _help_ often leads to conversation, and conversation often leads to Craig trying to a figure out, but when he looks into those glowing green eyes, all he can say is, “yes.”

The blonde nods his head and scoops up the rest of equipment into his arms. He follows him out the backdoor and into the parking lot, where the band’s van awaits, trunk open.

After they set the equipment inside the trunk, Craig closes it, and turns around to face the blonde. In the moonlight, he can see him even more clearly; his level of attraction for the man increasing by the second. “Thanks for the help.”

This is one of the rare cases of his life that he hates himself for being such an introvert. Most times, he does not mind it. He stays to himself, and he is fine with it, but right now, as he stands in front of this beautiful creature before him, he cannot help but see it as a major character flaw upon himself. He acorns himself for not listening to Kenny when he tried to teach him  _ how to pick up men  _ before he got together with Stan. Kenny’s a great flirt; charming as they come and swift as a bat. He has never once been so envious of his friend as he searches his mind for something interesting to say.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles, and  _ that smile _ — it’s warm and bright; everything you ever want from someone and more. He’s never liked a smile so much. “I’m Tweek, by the way,” he reaches out a hand to Craig.

Craig takes the man’s hand, immediately noticing the black nailpolish and the assortment of rings he wears. He also has a good number of bracelets dangling from his wrist. 

The handshake goes on a beat longer than usual before Craig lets go.

“I’m Craig.”

“I like your gauges,  _ Craig.” _

Craig mindlessly puts two fingers against his earlobe. He got them two years ago — Kenny told him he did not look  _ punk  _ enough to be part of a punk rock band. He has been at a 0g gauge for months, unsure if he wants to take it any farther.

“Oh, thanks,” he responds. “I like your nose ring.”

“Do you  _ actually, _ or are you just saying that because you have to?”

Craig flushes red. “No. I really do.”

Tweek seems to find this funny because he laughs. Craig looks down. “You’re cute,” Craig  _ hears.  _ He shoots his eyes back up and sees the blonde smile — green eyes glowing.

“Thank you… I would say you are as well. But I feel like you wouldn’t believe me.”

Tweek laughs again. “Try me.”

“Okay… uh, you are  _ —,” _

“Not right now,” Tweek smiles at him. “After my show,” he says with a wink before sauntering back into the dive bar. Craig stares — mouth agape. When Kenny first  _ convinced  _ him to come to their shows, he said  _ there will be cute guys there, you might meet someone…  _ Could he have actually been right?

Craig heads back inside and takes a seat at the bar, ordering a whiskey sour. He leans against the bar top, eagerly watching the stage, waiting for the performance.

Like clockwork, Stan and Kenny appear, disheveled hair and all. “How was it?” Stan asks. “Did you notice that I changed that guitar solo slightly?”

“Yeah, yeah, it was great…” Craig mumbles, not paying much mind to his friend but instead the mock stage. The bar owner appears and introduces the next act, Tweek Tweak. Then, the man from before,  _ Tweek _ , comes forward and sits on the bench in front of his electric piano.

“Do you think that we should alter the line up — I just feel like —,”

“Sure. Cool. Totally.  _ Shut up. _ ”

Tweek begins to play the piano, then begins to sing — or  _ scream _ — honestly it is one in the same. Craig has never heard anything like it and he so desperately wants to like it but he really,  _ really  _ doesn’t.

“Jesus. This guy sucks.” Stan says.

Craig sighs, frowning. He so wishes he could disagree but… it really,  _ really  _ does. It is like if you took slam poetry and mixed it with punk rock and a bad piano ballad.

He winces.

“Yeah… I’m not a fan…,” Kenny says. “Maybe we should just go home early tonight.”

And because Craig is an asshole and very much enjoys taking the easy way out, he decides to say yes to Kenny’s suggestion. It is a lot easier to go home and forget about the cute boy than to tell him his music sucks.

…

The second time he meets Tweek is three months later at a dive bar in Fort Collins.

It is more or less in the same way… Craig is transferring the equipment back to the van when someone interrupts him.

“Hey have we met… you look really familiar and it will bother me for the rest of the night if I don’t ask.”

Craig flashes his eyes up and is met with immediate recognition. After he left the show three months ago, he looked up  _ Tweek Tweak _ at the motel room. He scrolled through his Instagram, Facebook Page, and even  _ Linked In  _ account. “Uh, no, I don’t think so…”

“No, no… I swear — your  _ gauges. Hey,  _ you’re that guy who was supposed to call me cute after my show In Colorado Springs and then bailed!”

He could play this off two ways:

Show no memory at all of this.

Or tell the truth.

He reluctantly goes with the latter. “Oh yeah… now I remember… my band wanted to go, so,” he shrugs a shoulder, “sorry about that.”

“ _ Sure,”  _ Tweek does a curt nod, crossing his arms. “So did you like it?”

“Yeah,  _ totally _ .”

Tweek scoffs. “You are a really bad liar.”

“No — that’s just my  _ voice _ . I struggle with sounding genuine.”

Tweek smirks, shaking his head. “Whatever.” He turns around, holding a hand up to wave, his fingers wiggling. “Bye Greg.”

“It’s  _ Craig.” _

…

The third time he meets him is five months later.

He has finally gotten a job as a Digital Signal Processing Engineer, which is …  _ okay.  _ It was pretty much one of the only jobs he could find that did not require five years of experience prior. He probably will stick at the company until he gets some experience in, and then maybe apply for something more in the lines of Space Systems Engineering — what he  _ really  _ wants to do. 

He doesn’t spend much time with the band anymore; a new groupie assigned to deal with all their shit. Craig feels  _ relieved  _ but sometimes he misses it. He will occasionally go to their shows if they are not too far from Denver. It is weird to watch as just an audience member. 

He has strangely found that he  _ misses  _ the dive-bar scene; the showcase of bands and artists. 

It was, in fact,  _ his  _ idea to go out tonight. Clyde has not been to too many bars since marrying Bebe; completely accustomed to his new adult life. 

He is twenty-four now, and he feels within the last year, he has matured and aged a lot; he moved out of the rental house and bought his own —  _ well _ , he was more so,  _ kicked  _ out.  _ Assholes _ . Butters did not live with them before, and since Craig was no longer an  _ honorary member of the band,  _ they asked him to move out to make room for Butters. It was for the best though — he had to get up at 7 am for his new job, and that was a hard thing to do when the band would stay up until 4 am  _ practicing  _ in the basement. 

Craig is pretty sure his  _ punk _ days are pretty much over, not that he was ever  _ really  _ too punk to begin with, more so just a groupie of a punk rock band. He still has gauges in his ears, though; a reminder of the  _ good ol’ days. _

When the bar owner announces the fourth act: Tweek Tweak, his heart flips upside down. It definitely cannot be anyone else but the music being played tonight is definitely not  _ punk,  _ or even  _ rock _ — more so… singer/songwriter, folk or indie — some combination of the three.

But there is Tweek, dressed in flannel and ripped jeans, taking a seat —  _ this _ time — in front of a grand piano on stage instead of his electric one. 

Craig waits, slightly cringing under the anticipation of the less than enjoyable music, but what he hears is different than the times before — it is…  _ nice.  _ The tune he plays on the piano is soft and harmonic, the keys producing a beautiful melody.

Then, he starts to sing, not  _ scream,  _ like before, but actually  _ sing,  _ and his voice is beautiful; angelic and soft, too good for this dingy bar and  _ way  _ too good to be wasting it on whatever the fuck he was doing before.

He watches till the end — shushing Clyde when he begins to whine and complain about wanting to go home. Clyde ends up leaving in the middle of it — saying it is  _ late  _ a 12:30 am and that he is  _ tired _ — the same guy who stayed up for fifty-two hours straight once, binge drinking _.  _

Craig says he will Uber home. This time he will stay until the end of the show.

So he sits there alone with his whiskey sour in hand, admiring the man on the stage and the way his soft voice carries through the bar. It is sweet and raspy, like a bird who has been singing his song all morning. It’s so much better than what he has heard previously from the musician. He could listen to him all night; the flow of the music, the swell of emotion in his soft voice, and the small bits of words in between while introducing the next song.

He is sad when it’s over, when Tweek says  _ goodnight  _ and drifts off the mock stage. He wants to hear more of him; see more of him. He watches him move across the bar, making his way to pick up his things by the wall. He continues to watch as he makes his way to the bar… and then, without really thinking much about it, he gets up himself. He approaches him cautiously, remembering the last interaction a little too clearly. It did not go so well.

“Bartender… I got whatever he ordered…,” he slides the debit card onto the bar top, nodding over to the blonde next to him. The bartender glances at him, semi-unphased before nodding in acknowledgement, and returning his attention back to the drink he is making. He finally looks over to Tweek, who is looking at him with wide, glaring eyes and a straight line across his lips.

“Uh… Thanks?”

“Do you remember me?”

“ _ Yes _ .” He blinks.

“Do you?”

“ _ Yes.  _ Craig, right?” He raises an eyebrow.

“Uh. Yeah. So you  _ do  _ know my name.”

He shakes his head and looks away towards the bartender. Craig figures he has thirty seconds to make this right until that bartender sets his drink down. “Why are you buying me a drink, Craig?”

“ _ Because _ … I think you’re cute.”

Tweek does something in between a scoff and a laugh. “You’re a little late on that; several months, in fact.”

“Better than never though, right?” Craig cocks his head to the side.

Tweek eyes him, a sly smile unfolding on his lips. 

“I thought you were amazing.” Craig says.

“Thanks.”

“Like really — you are really talented. I noticed the change of style.”

Tweek’s drink arrives. They both stare at it. Tweek pulls it forward and takes a sip. “Thank you,” he says, “yeah… I was kind of going through some shit back then… I’ve sort of toned it down a little.”

“It suits you better.”

The corner of his lips twitch up. “You don’t even  _ know  _ me — how can you know what  _ suits  _ me?”

Craig shrugs. “I don’t know. You just don’t seem very  _ punk  _ to me — you’re too…  _ sweet.” _

Tweek shakes his head and dips his chin down to the brim of his drink, possibly trying to hide his smile. “Is that a compliment?”

“Yes. I have had enough punks in my life.”

Tweek flashes his green eyes up to him with a smile. “Tell me more about your interpretation of me… I’m interested...” he twirls the black spinner in his cup that holds a lime, eyeing him through his long eyelashes.

“From your songs… you seem to have a lot of damage…”

“Ouch,” Tweek tilts his head.

“ _ But _ because of it — you have come out stronger, and … you’ve made something out of it. You’ve shown that you can overcome your struggles and turn them into something beautiful.”

Tweek’s lips unfold into a toothless grin, his green eyes lit.

The bill arrives and Craig signs it. When he looks back over to Tweek, he is still beaming at him. “So you must have been really paying attention, huh?”

“I hung onto every word.”

“Well, you know so much about me… why don’t you tell me about you?”

So Craig  _ does _ , and oddly enough, he doesn’t struggle with opening up as he normally does. Maybe it’s due to the fact that he is on his third whiskey sour, or that Tweek’s eyes make him forget that words are even coming from his mouth; or that Tweek made it look so easy to wear your heart on your sleeve when he was on stage. But it is easy to talk to Tweek. He is a good listener. He actually seems interested in what he is saying, even though it is just a boring story about how he got roped into somehow becoming a roadie, and now a Digital Signaling Processing Engineer. Even when he explains his job to Tweek, Tweek seems interested, whereas most people give up trying to understand within the first couple words.

They talk all night and when the bartender announces the last call, he asks for the blonde’s number. Tweek gives it to him, and he texts him the minute he gets home. He won’t lose him a third time.

  
  



End file.
